


ab (Ger)- Off, organ stops or mutes

by crabapplered



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Guro, Knifeplay, M/M, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 06:40:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crabapplered/pseuds/crabapplered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prowl pushes the thought away. “I don’t suppose you can make any sound at all?” he asks, trying to distract himself.</p><p>His answer is a pure tone, sweet and deep, that cascades into haunting melody. It catches on Prowl’s doorwings and sends their sensitivity rocketing upwards, making them flair painfully wide as his frame strains to catch more of this sudden sensation.</p><p>He cups Jazz’s face. His thumb traces the soft o of Jazz’s mouth, gone pliant and open from surprise. “Do that again,” he whispers. “Please.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	ab (Ger)- Off, organ stops or mutes

It’s late in the orn, well after the standard shift has ended. Prowl had left his office to get some energon, the walk to and from the base’s cafeteria a welcome chance to unbind his gears and stretch his cabling. Even he can’t spend joor on end at a desk without some discomfort.  
  
He hasn’t been gone long, but it’s enough. By the time he’s gotten back someone has snuck into his office.  
  
The door snaps shut behind him the moment he walks through. The locks engage without his permission, an audible clank of heavy-duty security trapping him inside. He freezes.  
  
A touch on his left doorwing, light as smoke, in three simple strokes-   :)  
  
“Jazz,” says Prowl.  
  
Even knowing who it is doesn’t let Prowl sense anything beside that gentle touch. High level stealth mods keep Jazz’s energy field invisible and his frame utterly silent. In the dim light of Prowl’s room, with Jazz unseen behind him, Prowl might as well have been alone with a ghost.  
  
Fingers patter on Prowl in a teasing rhythm, and Jazz slides into view.  
  
Prowl drinks in the sight of him. For a tactical model such as himself, used to being bombarded with additional data from the sensors in his doorwings, Jazz’s lack of presence is uncanny, unnerving. Visual data is all Prowl can rely on. That’s why he stares at Jazz.  
  
It’s not because Jazz is beautiful.  
  
Though he is, of course, even now when he’s so damaged. In the dark of his mind, Prowl can even admit that perhaps he finds Jazz especially beautiful when he’s damaged. That sleek build dented and chipped, with heavy scorch marks from laser fire and chunks of protective plating ripped away, right arm crumpled past usage and legs badly scored with acid burns. Whatever Jazz has encountered chewed him up and spat him out, leaving him trembling in Prowl’s office. Wounded. Fragile. Vulnerable.  
  
Long practice keep Prowl’s face blank, his body language serene. The only thing that changes is the triggering of his recording function to add this memory to his sparse collection. Vulnerable Jazz is a fascinating Jazz, a creature entirely different from the glittering seducer and charming gossip he usually presents as. His movements, still graceful, turn slow and deliberate. His visor’s glow dims to a soft, rich sapphire. His pretty face tips away and down into shadows, as if he was shy.  
  
“Were you successful?” asks Prowl.  
  
Jazz nods, smiles a little, and unsubspaces a dark cube no bigger then the palm of his hand. It’s the memory core from one of Shockwave’s labs, what they hope will be the key to unlocking the mystery behind the new acidic gas weapon that’s been deployed on the battlefield and left recent scars on Jazz’s legs.  
  
Prowl takes it from him, careful not to let their fingers brush. He doesn’t want to feel that touch again. This is one of the few times when he is uncomfortably aware of a physical advantage over Jazz.  
  
“Excellent. Anything else to report?”  
  
Jazz hesitates.  
  
How unusual. Prowl’s interest immediately peeks.  
  
Finally Jazz nods, but points to his throat and shakes his head, then ducks his helm and points to a deep gouge near the back, below one of his audio horns.  
  
“Your vocalizer is damaged? No, that wound to your helm must have taken out your speech centers and comm.”  
  
A nod.  
  
Prowl rocks back on his heels. Jazz, mute. Utterly silenced. For the first time he has to make a conscious effort to keep the tremble out of his doorwings. He forces his attention away from Jazz to the precious cargo he’s delivered, setting it carefully in a drawer of his desk, busying himself with the lock and turning away from the delicate thing that Jazz has become.  
  
So much of Jazz is in his voice. Rich and sweet, like fine high grade, Jazz has used it to reel countless mech into his confidence, to cut the egos of just as many others. It is a weapon as formidable as any pistol.  
  
Those low tones have joked and teased Prowl so often, turning his words against him, pushing Prowl back from any kind of true intimacy. Without it, Jazz is disarmed in ways new to Prowl.  
  
Without it, Jazz can’t call for help.  
  
Prowl pushes the thought away. “I don’t suppose you can make any sound at all?” he asks, trying to distract himself.  
  
His answer is a pure tone, sweet and deep, that cascades into haunting melody. It catches on Prowl’s doorwings and sends their sensitivity rocketing upwards, making them flair painfully wide as his frame strains to catch more of this sudden sensation. Prowl grips his desk and shakes and shakes, overcome.  
  
Jazz’s touch comes again, firm grip on Prowl’s shoulder, pulling him upright so Jazz can peer into his face. Concern overrides common sense and Jazz tries to ask him something.  
  
More sound pours out: the essence of Jazz’s voice striped of the clunky interface of words, language. All that’s left is pure emotion that shimmers through the air and vibrates through Prowl’s frame. It hangs in his sensor net. It echos in his spark chamber. His doorwings bat the air slowly to catch the subtle shades of tone and volume, and his hands work on autopilot, reaching out toward that sound.  
  
He cups Jazz’s face. His thumb traces the soft o of Jazz’s mouth, gone pliant and open from surprise. “Do that again,” he whispers. “Please.”  
  
Jazz’s one working hand comes up and his frame tenses, but he doesn’t do anything more. He and Prowl are friends, comrades of long history and rich trust. Is that what holds him back now? Is that why he slowly drops his hand and allows this?  
  
Prowl honestly doesn’t care.  
  
What he cares about is the melody. Not truly song, but a shifting carol of notes that spiral around the darkened office and set the place ringing. The office becomes a place of secrets and strange magic, where Prowl can touch Jazz and Jazz will allow it and perhaps, for a short time, there can be more.  
  
War has taught Prowl that some opportunities will never come again. Some chances, no matter how small, are worth the gamble.  
  
He kisses Jazz.  
  
Not on the mouth, of course. He can’t bear to stop the sound. The throat, where he can feel Jazz’s vocalizer rumbling.  
  
The trill Jazz makes instead of a gasp sends cold shivers through Prowl’s frame. The low croon he voices when Prowl pushes him up against the desk makes Prowl’s sensor net come fully alive. Prowl doesn’t want to miss any iota of this moment, and he overclocks his system without a second thought so he can pull in every nuance.  
  
He will never forget the shift of light on Jazz’s face when Prowl forces him to tip his head further back until it hangs over the edge of the desk, neck a vulnerable arch. He will never forget the rush of satisfaction when his fingers lock around the wrist of Jazz’s single working arm, pinning it down, helpless.  
  
He is standing between Jazz’s legs and has him spread out on the desk, his one good arm pinned, and Prowl’s still fairly certain Jazz could, at any moment, turn this around. Kill him. But Jazz is pliant to Prowl’s demanding touch, and his armour loosens invitingly, vulnerable gaps for Prowl to explore.  
  
Prowl ignores them. Instead he turns his attention to that wreck of a right arm. It looks like it has been crushed in someone’s massive hand. A triple changer? A guardian drone? Impossible for Prowl to know for sure until Jazz’s report, so instead he settles for placing his hand in the grip marks, fingers in the trenches left by something much bigger than his own. He can feel the heat of components warped and strained. Very deliberately, he squeezes.  
  
A bright tumble of melody becomes a sweet climbing scale of frantic notes, Jazz coming alive beneath him, thrashing, twisting in Prowl’s tightening grip.  
  
“I don’t want what you offer everyone else. Do you understand?” says Prowl.  
  
Jazz’s only answer is a discordant tune. The squeal of stressed mettle rises above it. Prowl continues to tighten his grip, grinding armour together until he’s rewarded with the soft pop of a ruptured line and energon begins to drip from Jazz’s mutilated arm.  
  
It’s damp and warm on Prowl’s fingers. He brings his hand up and licks it clean. Muted zing of used energy, the cloying taste of soot. The taste of Jazz’s life.  
  
“I will wring every last note from you,” he promises. “Every last sound. I will have them all, until there is only silence.”  
  
Jazz trembles.  
  
He makes the softest little chimes - whimpers? Or laughter? Looking at Jazz’s face, tipped so far back and shrouded in shadows, visor almost black it’s so dark, Prowl can’t tell the difference. Jazz’s expression is impossible for him to read.  
  
No matter. The goal for now isn’t to understand, simply to experience. Understanding can come later, in the replaying of these files over and over in Prowl’s cortex, every moment analyzed and cataloged. This heat he feels now will burn within him again and again.  
  
He turns his attention to Jazz’s belly, bowed and lovely, black metal warped and cracked. He presses his hand to it. Yes, he can feel the life inside. “Jazz. Do you have a knife?”  
  
It appears like magic between the fingers of Jazz’s working hand. Not even the faintest twist of energy to show he’d unsubspaced it - more stealth mods, no doubt.  
  
It is offered, hilt up, to Prowl. He takes it, mindful of any tricks, careful not to release Jazz’s wrist. The hilt fits his hand a little oddly. This is no standard piece, after all. It’s Jazz’s custom energy blade.  
  
It flickers to life in Prowl’s grip, a pale blue flame edged in white, and he brings it down and slices a single, long line down the centre of Jazz’s body.  
  
He is no surgeon, no medic. But he has seen the inside of bots often since the beginning of war, and he has steady hands. The line he carves is just deep enough to cut through both armour and Jazz’s quiet, making arpeggios drip from his lips in plaintive descent, making his pinned hand clench uselessly on air.  
  
A second line is cut into Jazz’s belly, and then Prowl makes a quick cross cut. In moments he is peeling back a long strip of Jazz’s plating, flaying him with slow care, long curl of metal growing before the merciless cut of the blade. And every millimeter of it wrings sweet sound from Jazz, a rise and fall of pitch like the twist and climb of airborn seekers, a catch, a rough note of agonized off key when Prowl tares away the strip and drops it to the desk. Prowl’s fans hum to life - he’s getting overheated.  
  
Again and again Prowl cuts, stripping Jazz of layers of his very body, laying his components out naked in the dim light of this office. They are gilded and glittered blue and silver and sapphire by the light from the screen of Prowl’s console. They are like spun crystal, like precious jewels.  
  
He wants both hands for this.  
  
He drives the knife deep into the palm of Jazz’s hand, pinning it to the desk. Jazz shrieks in autotuned distress, voice fracturing into triple tones for one captivating instant.  
  
“. . . I didn’t know you could sound like that.”  
  
He twists the knife to get Jazz to do it again and his captive obliges him, tri-part voice throbbing and twining about itself even as Jazz’s legs tighten about Prowl’s waist. But when Prowl reaches forward to cup Jazz’s cheek Jazz turns his face away, arches his back to display his mutilated belly, reweaves his voice to croon soft, trembling descents at him.  
  
Prowl grabs him by the audio horn and wrenches Jazz’s head back around. “No. Give me what I want.”  
  
What he wants right now is the sight of Jazz’s face. It’s a strange mask that’s not quite blank, lips parted just so in the shadows, the darkness spilling past them and into Jazz’s mouth. Prowl’s other hand grips the naked expanse of Jazz’s belly and tangles its fingers in the rainbow of cables. Tugs, very gently.  
  
He smiles as he watches the light flicker behind Jazz’s visor. Hears the unhappy jangle of notes that turns trilling when he really digs his fingers in, pulling just short of actual damage on Jazz’s internals.  
  
He dips and kisses what he’s laid bare. Then he bites.  
  
He sinks his denta deep into one of Jazz’s struts, sharp metal cutting easily into it, feeling the electrical charge of Jazz’s life humming in his mouth and against his tongue. He worries at the bite, grinding to make the it deeper, vicious, hands keeping Jazz pinned in place, doorwings extended to their full span to catch the flicker of Jazz’s internal currents, the sobbing bell of his voice.  
  
His mouth moves upwards, bite by bite, leaving a lacework of holes and dents behind. He sucks on the connectors for wires, pulls aside protective covers and laps at tender circuit boards beneath. Jazz’s voice sings around him even as Jazz’s body does beneath him, a rising charge that crackles and spits star-sparks about Prowl’s face, burns his tongue.  
  
He finds, finally, what he was looking for: an energon line. Prowl groans and rubs his face against Jazz’s belly, then takes the line between his teeth. Bright anticipation.  
  
He bites into it, sucks the life fluid from it. Keening notes from Jazz. Is it horror? Delight? Prowl dips his hands to grip Jazz’s hips, finds the gaps in the armour there and strokes, gentle, gentle, into the joint well and Jazz’s voice disintegrates into strange tones that warble and croon and scrape the edge of unpleasant on Prowl’s senses.  
  
He drinks from the writhing creature beneath him and together their charge mounts higher and higher, Jazz seeming to bleed out not only into Prowl’s mouth but from his own, through the song his screams have become. Prowl sucks and pulls on the line and pulls Jazz right along with him into heat and hunger, Jazz tugging mindlessly against the pinion of the knife, Prowl’s fingers locked to keep Jazz’s hips from bucking him away.  
  
A cascade of sparks. Prowl can taste the overload as it happens to Jazz, rich new flow into his mouth like the best highgrade, clean and sharp, straight from Jazz’s fuel pump, and he and Jazz knot together in a trashing coil on the desk top. Through it all Jazz howls his melody, the music of his passion.  
  
The crash afterward leaves them lying in the quiet and the dim light, Prowl on top of Jazz, who’s wilted and leaking energon, limp, broken.  
  
Jazz is the first to stir. Light flickers in Jazz’s visor, and he tilts his head at Prowl. Offers a single, questioning note.  
  
Prowl straightens up, and his hands come down like a doom on Jazz’s shoulders, keeping him prone. “I’m not finished with you yet.”  
  
He pulls the knife from Jazz’s hand with wrench of effort. Studies the blade almost absently. It’s sharp, yes, and can peel away outer plating, but is it sturdy enough to pry open protective casing?  
  
This time, it’s Jazz chest he cuts into, and he doesn’t stop with mere flaying. He wants something very specific from Jazz, and it’ll take extreme measures to get it.  
  
He has only rudimentary knowledge of the components he’s carving into, and Jazz is heavily modified to boot. He watches through narrowed optics the spin of Jazz’s internal fans, soundless like so much of what Jazz keeps inside. Slow and careful, he carves away the connectors. The wires part before the energy blade without so much as a spark, and Jazz warbles at the loss when Prowl slowly pulls it out and sets it on the desktop.  
  
“Don’t overheat,” whispers Prowl, bending to brush soft kisses along the edge of the wound he’s excavating. He can see more of Jazz now. There’s circuit boards and raw machinery, connecting pipes and loops of nerve wires. He’d carved in a bit too low, he realizes, catching sight of his goal. No matter. He can cut his way up.  
  
Fuel lines he slices away without a second thought, the sticky gush barely a distraction. He tugs at some sort of filter -Jazz twitches in time with a squeak of bright sound- and when it won’t come easy goes at it with the knife until it pops into his hand. It’s still warm, and he takes a moment to cradle it, a round disk with the centre filled by a fine metal mesh. This keeps Jazz clean inside. Pointless, since Prowl is making such a mess of him.  
  
It joins the fan on Prowl’s desktop, the strips of Jazz’s outer plating. He is carving a space for himself inside of Jazz, a hollow that he puts his hands into and feels the thrum of Jazz’s life, the rising heat of his frame. Jazz flexes and twists in slow motion below him and around him, both hands useless, legs still clenched about Prowl’s hips, and making bass rumbles of something that could have been pain if he wasn’t thrusting the wreckage of his chest up for Prowl’s every touch.  
  
That low sound spirals into something richer when Prowl reaches deep inside and brushes his fingers against his goal, the tone of Jazz’s lovely voice spreading out into variants like light through a prism.  
  
Yes. He knows what Prowl is aiming for.  
  
He might even have offered it up if Prowl had asked. But if he had, would it have meant anything? With Jazz, you never truly know.  
  
This is simpler. Much more real. Prowl wrenches out the sparking heatsink with a satisfied huff and tosses it away. He can finally see it: Jazz’s spark chamber.  
  
There is energon and coolant everywhere inside, and sparks spit and hiss from overheating components. Prowl hacks at Jazz’s body in almost mindless drive, laying bare the core so precious in every mech, energy crackling the length of the blade and along his fingers in bitting arcs of blue. His doorwings make a shadow above the pair of them and track the rise of Jazz’s temperature, a sharp spike upwards now that Prowl has removed so much of him, drained so much of his coolant. Prowl’s fascinated by how Jazz’s mouth, panting and open, makes the sound rise and fall in harsh staccato bursts, but he can’t stop to listen now that he’s so very close.  
  
Condensation forms in silver beads on the perfect curve of Jazz’s spark chamber when the cool air touches it, an obscene caress to something that should stay hidden and secret. Prowl tosses away the knife. He can’t bare to do this so impersonally anymore. Instead it’s with his fingers that he claws at the protective hull, ignoring damage to his hands as he wedges fingertips into the shutter’s spiraling petals.  
  
It cracks open. Jazz cracks open. White light spilling into Prowl’s grasp in a trembling line before the chamber spirals open as it’s forced into reflex action.  
  
Jazz sings to the darkness, voice an eerie howl that Prowl has heard before in the depths of space, in the time when one hangs between consciousness and the hell of defrag after a glitch. Inside Jazz his spark swirls and pulses in time to this song, to this anthem of his violation.  
  
Prowl is purring, his engine rumbling, his fans going so hard they make his frame tremble, but his hands are steady. His mind is clear.  
  
“Yes,” he whispers. “Yes. Very nice, Jazz.”  
  
A minor brutality comes next as he wrenches at Jazz’s frame. He needs enough room, enough space, shivers at the squeal of metal as he cracks Jazz open wider and finally he can lean in, and in, and press his lips close to that bright, white light, and whisper directly inside.  
  
“Found you.”  
  
 Mutilated arms are nothing now. Jazz’s frame thrashes and curls, savage and grasping as a morphobot, pulling Prowl to him with battered limbs and strong legs.  
  
His voice is getting louder. His pitch is getting higher. Will others hear it? Will others know what Prowl is doing?  
  
“This hall is deserted this time of orn,” he whispers into Jazz’s spark. “The chances of you being heard are less then two percent. Have you thought about what this means? About what I could do to you?” He licks the rim of Jazz’s spark chamber and tastes the raw mana of Jazz’s passion. “No one else knows you are here,” Prowl says, and he is panting the words as he tries to shed heat through his mouth. He’s met with the molten core of his prey, sucks in its heat instead.  
  
“I wonder. Letting me carve into you like this. What would you do if I made to cut your arms off? Your legs? If I ripped away all your plating and kept you, a naked wreck of a thing, in my quarters.” He suckles at Jazz’s spark and he can hear it, he can _taste_ it: music. A throbbing beat. A soaring tune. Notes clotted together in half-time and melodies scrolling out before his optics, and they are pouring from Jazz’s mouth in a veritable fountain of sound, still going higher and higher, winding tight like a spring.  
  
“I could do it, you know. Lie and say you fell in the line of duty. No one would ever question me. You would be my secret.”  
  
The notes hang in a single primal tone, on and on and on and Prowl is melting, his heat sink critical, his fans starting to catch and smoke, his overclocked systems straining.  
  
“Jazz. I want to. I want . . . I want . . . .”  
  
The spark flares. White light everywhere and out into Prowl’s mouth then echoed back as he overloads, the crackle-snarl of their electrics roaring through Prowl’s frame and into Jazz’s and that sound, that wondrous sound warbles as lightening crawls up the column of Jazz’s throat, out past his lips in notes Prowl can swear he sees and then-  
  
-dies.  
  
With a bright snap and hiss, the scent of ozone, the tang of slagged metal. Jazz has blown out his vocalizer.  
  
It’s one wound too many. His strained systems go into protective shut down. Loss of energon, the mutilation of his torso, the toll of two successive overloads are too much for him, and he goes still and utterly, completely silent in Prowl’s grasp.  
  
In the empty time that follows Prowl pants and heaves, letting his own frame cool, turning off his recording function. The tick of cooling metal seems muted after symphony of their joining, and Jazz’s spark is a dim ember, barely flickering in the dark. His pretty face is blank. Prowl hauls him upright, then tumbles him into the office chair.  
  
Jazz is still functioning, if only barely. Prowl watches him. Watches systems shunt power through alternate routes and taper off the flow of leaking fluids. Watches the flicker of Jazz’s spark stabilize into a pale glow. And because Jazz is a special operations mech, built to complete his mission no matter the damage he takes, he comes back online, one slow system boot up at a time.  
  
Light flickers behind the shield of his visor. His head lolls, then slowly tips so he can look Prowl in the face. His lips part.  
  
Only silence.  
  
Finally, finally Prowl comes forward and presses his lips to Jazz in a soft kiss.  
  
Jazz pushes Prowl away, more of a gentle body check then anything else at this point, dragging himself up and out of the chair. He’ll be heading to medbay. Primus only knows what Ratchet will make of this, what will happen to Prowl.  
  
Somehow, offering his help after all that he’s done seems insulting. Prowl unlocks and opens the door for Jazz and nothing else. He folds his arms around himself to keep from touching, and he watches silently as Jazz sways down that long hall.  
  
Jazz makes it to the corner. Pauses.  
  
And then he looks back at Prowl.  
  
And grins.  
  
Prowl’s optics widen. What? _What?!_  
  
But before he can do anything, Jazz is gone, vanished around the corner. Prowl is alone and confused, with nothing left to him but the lingering taste of music . . . and silence.  
  
~End.


End file.
